


An Opportune Moment

by Evergreene



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: First Meetings, Hurt d'Artagnan, Minor Violence, Pirate AU, Porthos the Pirate, d'Artagnan's a street rat, they are all criminals really..., think Musketeers of the Caribbean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When d'Artagnan, a thief making a living on the streets of Port Royal, tries to take the wrong man's coin-purse, it has unexpected consequences for more than just him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Opportune Moment

**Author's Note:**

> *waves* For anyone waiting on my other stories, I am definately still working on them, but have just hit a very solid wall of writer's block. I'm very sorry about the delay and hope you will enjoy this hopefully swash-buckling offering in the meantime.

‘Take it and I shall have your hand.’

D’Artagnan stilled, his fingers hovering over the trailing strings of the other man’s coin-purse. ‘You wouldn’t.’

The early Caribbean light that flared dimly through the tavern’s windows caught the man’s pale face as he turned in his seat, lending a gleam to the thin scar that cut across his upper lip, hidden mostly beneath a coarse beard. ‘I have done worse. And to men of far greater import than yourself.’

His pride stung, d’Artagnan narrowed his eyes, jaw clenching. ‘And I’m supposed to take your word for that?’

The stillness of the tavern shattered as the man erupted, shoving back his chair and surging forwards, and before d’Artagnan could think he found himself pinned backwards over a nearby table, his hair in his eyes and a knife at his throat as he glared up at his captor, who leant over him, body heavy and close against his own and his breath soured with a morning’s rum.

‘Do you really think it wise to test me, boy?’

‘Let the lad up, Athos,’ came another voice. At once d’Artagnan bucked upwards, trying to dislodge his assailant, but he received only a slice to the neck for his troubles as, through the tavern’s gloom, a familiar figure descended from the suite of bedrooms on the floor above, pausing on the narrow corner staircase to take in the scene below.

‘This is a private matter, Aramis,’ replied the man Athos, without once taking his eyes from d’Artagnan’s. ‘I would appreciate it if you would take your business elsewhere.’ The sharpest hint of a smile curled the corner of his mouth. ‘Or was it pleasure last night?’

‘I prefer to think of my trade as a little of both,’ the newcomer remarked. Dressed in close-fitting breeches and a charcoal-grey shirt slung low and open at the neck, he cut a dashing figure that was added to by the fine gold chain that hung over his muscled chest, glinting in the dim light as he made his way down the rest of the stairs, coming to stand beside them so that d’Artagnan, still pinned against the table, was forced to glare at him upside-down as he gave a disapproving shake of his head.

‘Now what do we have here?’

Athos’s face gave nothing away. ‘He’s a thief.’

‘Indeed he is,’ agreed Aramis. ‘And as I’ve heard it, the best thief in all Port Royal.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘It’s what comes of spending your life on the streets, I suppose. No role models.’ He clapped a friendly hand on Athos’ shoulder, causing d’Artagnan to grit his teeth as the knife at his neck dug in a little deeper. ‘Whilst you, my friend, are a disgraced nobleman who robbed his wife of every jewel she owned before fleeing to the colonies.’ He smirked, placing his hands on the table on either side of d’Artagnan’s head and leaning over him, close enough that d’Artagnan could make out the narrow scar just under his hairline. ‘You make quite the pair.’

‘Do not pretend you can cling to some form of morality,’ snapped Athos. ‘And don’t change the subject. He tried to steal my coin-purse.’

‘Thief,’ rasped d’Artagnan, who was starting to feel forgotten, not to mention finding it difficult to breathe.

Aramis ignored him, instead straightening up and leaning unconcernedly against the table-top, his narrow hips right beside d’Artagnan’s head. ‘Despite his less than honourable choice of vocation, Athos, I would be grateful if his hands could remain attached to the rest of him.’ He raised a suggestive eyebrow. ‘It would be a great shame to waste someone of his...talents.’

Tilting the knife so that d’Artagnan was forced to crane his neck back to avoid its keen edge, Athos sent Aramis a sideways glance. ‘You know him?’

‘We’ve met,’ replied Aramis casually, reaching up to run a hand through his already dishevelled hair and messing it up further. ‘A passing acquaintance only.’

D’Artagnan could not help but snort, making the knife dig in painfully so a thin trickle of blood ran down his throat. ‘That’s not what you said last night.’

Aramis looked scandalised at his revelation while Athos just heaved a heavily worn sigh.

‘You’ll never learn, will you, Aramis?’ he muttered, and reaching down he began to run his free hand down d’Artagnan’s shirt front, his fingers slim and cool where they brushed against his skin.

‘Hey-’ d’Artagnan snapped, but Athos merely shifted his search to the inside seams and a moment later withdrew a heavily embroidered purse which he held out to Aramis, raising a sceptical eyebrow as he did so.

Aramis took it between thumb and forefinger, looking mildly offended. ‘And here I thought we meant something to each other,’ he remarked with a glance at d’Artagnan, who gave a one-shouldered shrug just as the door swung open, slamming back against the wall as a bellow broke across the tavern.

‘You!’

Athos and Aramis both turned, distracted, and d’Artagnan seized his chance, twisting out of Athos’ hold and rolling away to land on all fours on the floorboards beside the table. Springing up with an ease borne of years on the streets, he paused to deal the two men a sardonic bow before darting for the doorway, only to find the front of his shirt caught up in a muscled fist as he was hauled into the air by a man the size of a bear, with wiry black hair that threatened to escape the brilliant blue bandana knotted about his head.

‘I should have known I’d find you here,’ growled the bear-like man, whose face looked vaguely familiar. ‘Hiding amongst the rest of the lowlifes who haunt this place-‘

A loud cough cut through the tavern and the newcomer swung round with d’Artagnan still dangling from his fist, only to pause as his hard gaze fell on the establishment’s other two patrons.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he muttered, and a moment later d’Artagnan found himself deposited in a nearby chair with a growled ‘ _move and I’ll gut you’_ his only warning as his captor strode forward, a grin on his face that lit the entire room as he reached out to embrace a beaming Aramis, clasping him in a bone-crushing hug before turning to Athos, who was watching the scene with the smallest of smiles on his face.

‘It can’t be...Athos?’

Athos nodded, stepping forward to receive his own embrace. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Too long,’ the giant agreed, releasing him and clapping a huge hand on Aramis’ back as he stepped up to join them, almost sending Aramis plummeting to the floor in his enthusiasm.

Recovering himself with enviable grace, Aramis shook his head as he tugged at his dislodged shirt to straighten it. ‘Who would have thought it?’ he exclaimed. ‘Together again. What in God’s name are you doing here, Porthos?’

One hand on the tavern door, d’Artagnan froze. ‘Porthos?’ he echoed, momentarily forgetting his escape. ‘The pirate?’

The three men turned to face him as one and d’Artagnan swallowed, remembering abruptly where he was as Porthos took a threatening step in his direction.

‘Heard of me, have you?’ he growled.

D’Artagnan glanced edgily at the door. ‘Once or twice,’ he hedged.

‘Maybe you should have thought of that before robbing me blind yesterday.’

Aramis raised a curious eyebrow at Porthos. ‘He robbed you too?’

Porthos scowled. ‘Yeah, right after we’d hit land. I’d barely stepped a foot onshore when I saw this one darting off with my coin-purse. Why? Who else has he robbed?’

‘Aramis and I fell victim to his tricks earlier today,’ said Athos sourly. He cast a glance at Aramis. ‘Some of us more than others.’

D’Artagnan held out his hands pacifyingly. ‘To be fair,’ he started, ‘you caught me before I took anything. So really, I’ve only robbed two of you-’

‘Two out of three,’ remarked Aramis to no one in particular. ‘Not bad.’

D’Artagnan decided it was past time for him to be going. ‘Seeing as you all appear to know each other, I’m certain you have a great deal of catching up to do. So if you will excuse me-’

He darted towards the door, only to be sent sprawling as it flew open for the second time that morning as a flood of soldiers entered the room. His head ringing, he vaguely made out Aramis shouting to Athos and Porthos, urging them to follow him upstairs, then there was a fist heading towards his face and he knew no more.

* * *

When he woke, it was to darkness and the stale stench of a windowless prison cell. Groaning, he reached up a hand to his aching head, only to find himself brought abruptly to a halt by clanking manacles that bound his wrists together, fastening him to the floor with a short chain that gave little room for movement.

Wincing, he managed to lever himself upright, licking his lips in an attempt to ease their dryness, which echoed that of his throat. He could feel the crustiness of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, as well as the dull throb of a bruise forming on his cheek and, probing with his tongue, he thought he could feel a couple of loosened teeth as well. No doubt the guards had had a fine time with him, he thought, and cursed under his breath as he recalled the chain of events that had led to his arrest, including his encounter with the three men in the tavern who, judging by the empty cells beside him, had all clearly escaped uncaught.

The sound of boots on the stone floor outside his cell sent what felt like knives stabbing through his head, but he forced his gaze up to see the familiar figure of Rochefort, captain of His Majesty’s Red Guards, approaching from the shadows at the end of the room. He bore a flaming torch in his hand, and d’Artagnan could see his blonde hair smoothed and gleaming under the torch's flickering light, which seemed to burn against his eyes, near blinding him. Against his will, he found himself twisting away from it as Rochefort came to a halt just on the other side of the bars, a dim shadow against the darkness.

‘D’Artagnan,’ came Rochefort's voice, as oily and even as usual. ‘A pleasure to see you awake. How nice that you could visit us once more. It has been almost three years now, surely, since last you graced us with your presence here.’

D’Artagnan stayed silent, knowing from experience that one wrong word to the captain of the guards could get a man whipped.

There was a jangle of keys and the clank of a rusted lock turning, then Rochefort was standing above him, his eyes hard and bright. ‘Has a cat got your tongue? Or have you simply decided not to answer? I would not be surprised. You have already been convicted of a dozen crimes this past day, you would not want to risk admitting more.’

D’Artagnan raised his gaze at that, looking Rochefort in the eyes. ‘What difference would it make? You have no intention of letting me go.’

Rochefort smiled, his mouth a thin, cruel line. ‘True. You have always thought yourself untouchable – racing around Port Royal like a rat in the streets, stealing from hard-working, decent folk and dodging my guards at every step. But it seems your crimes have finally caught up with you.’ Something that was almost the bark of a laugh escaped from him. ‘And to think that I went into that tavern looking for a different kind of prey.’ His shook his head, his face tightening. ‘Suffice to say, I consider myself fortunate to have the honour of informing you that you will hang at dawn. And rest assured, I will watch every second of it.’

Forcing down the jolt of fear that threatened to strangle him, d’Artagnan clenched his jaw. ‘Street rat or no,’ he hissed, ‘at least I have the courage to own my crimes instead of holding myself up high, pretending I’m not part of the problem. It’s because of you and those like you that the people outside these walls are forced to scrounge in the gutters for food, to make the choice to steal or starve.’ He drew in a harsh breath. ‘It’s our morals or our lives and you know it.’

Rochefort blinked, his face blank, then he took a calm step forward and delivered a violent kick to d'Artagnan's ribs that had him hunching over himself as he gasped for breath, only to cry out in pain as Rochefort’s boot met his body once again, sending him crashing back against the wall, his head knocking against the edge of a misplaced stone so hard that he almost blacked out.

Through a haze of pain, he heard footsteps retreating then the groan of the cell door closing, the sound of its lock a death-knell. ‘Goodbye, d’Artagnan,’ Rochefort announced, his voice seeming to float through the air and swarm around him, cold and unfeeling. ‘Knowing you has been truly . . . miserable.’

And then d’Artagnan was alone, the fear in his gut matching the pain of his body as he sunk back against the cell wall, with nothing to do but to wait for sunrise.

* * *

‘Pssst.’

Startled out of a restless doze, d’Artagnan woke to see three figures, all hooded and cloaked, standing outside his cell, outlined in shadows. One was pressed close against the metal bars that imprisoned him, fiddling with something, and a moment later he heard the rasp of shifting metal as the cell door swung open and the tallest of the three figures entered. Kneeling down without a sound, the newcomer started work on the manacles about his wrists, using the same bit of wire that had unlocked the door, and as he did, his hood fell back enough that d’Artagnan, disoriented as he was, was able to catch a glimpse of wiry hair peeking out from beneath bright blue cloth.

He stiffened, his chains clinking. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.

Lifting a finger to his lips, Porthos went back to work and within moments the chains had fallen away, dropping to the floor with a clank that made the big man curse as he rose quickly to his feet.

‘Quiet,’ said another of the figures tersely, and d’Artagnan recognised the harsh tones of Athos, but by then Aramis was at his side, his long fingers grasping at his chin and nudging his face towards the dim glow of the lantern he had set down on the floor upon entering. There was a pause, then d’Artagnan felt a soft touch over the cut where his head had hit the wall.

‘The guards?’

‘Rochefort.’

Even in the darkness, he could see Aramis’ face become grimmer. ‘Ah, yes. Not one of my favourite people. You’ve met before?’

Instead of answering, d’Artagnan pushed Aramis’ probing fingers away, only to find his forearm seized as Porthos hauled him to his feet.

‘Come on,’ Porthos said, nudging him along and out of the cell. ‘We’ve gotta get clear of this place before someone sees us.’

D'Artagnan gave a faint nod, then shook himself and nodded again, surer of himself this time. Making sure he had his feet under him, he followed Athos towards the dark corridor at the end of the room, with Porthos on his heels and Aramis pausing a moment to lock the cell door behind them before following.

Athos gave him a tilt of his head and Aramis shrugged. ‘It will give Rochefort something to think about.’

There was a low chuckle from Porthos, then they were on their way, one behind the other, keeping to the shadows and staying tucked against the walls as they avoided the multitude of guards who patrolled Port Royal's gaol. They ran into trouble only once, when a prisoner in a nearby cell cried out as they passed, caught in the grip of a nightmare. A guard came running, but Athos had him against the wall with a knife to his neck within moments.

‘Does he make a habit of that?’ d’Artagnan panted, one hand pressed against his ribs. He was finding it harder to catch his breath than usual, no doubt because of his injuries, and he knew that he was holding himself upright out of sheer force of will, with his knees threatening to buckle with every other step.

‘You have no idea,’ Aramis replied, but then the guard was on the floor, his life blood running out from a wound in his side, and Athos was continuing on, leaving d’Artagnan to follow him as they made their way down a flight of stairs and through a low passage that d’Artagnan was sure he would never have noticed had he been by himself. It was covered in broken cobwebs that hung from the roof, which gleamed silver as they hurried by, using their hands to guide them as much Aramis' latern as the passage turned into a tunnel that dipped and swayed, getting ever lower and the air ever moister as it went on and on.

After what felt like hours, they finally emerged from the tunnel into the biting nght air and a whistling wind, which tossed their hair and clothing every which way as they bunched together on a rocky outcrop that looked out over the Caribbean ocean, big and black and heaving beneath them with great swells that swung and swept in an easy, ceaseless rhythm. Doubled over and panting, d'Artagnan could just make out the line of a jagged sea-cliff soaring high above them, and a sudden flare at the edge of his vision signalled the breaking of dawn on the far distant horizon. 

Still trying to catch his breath, he watched Athos from the corner of his eye, who had moved to the edge of the outcrop and was looking over the side of it, apparently searching for something.

‘It’s here!’ he heard him call finally. ‘Once the tide has gone out we shall be able to make our way down to the sands and away.’

Porthos brushed past d’Artagnan as he went to take a look himself, but Aramis remained beside him, laying a bracing hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

‘D’Artagnan?’

D’Artagnan forced himself to straighten, fighting to control his laboured breaths as well as his head, which was spinning from more than just the blow. ‘Why?’ he managed finally, looking up at the three men who had gathered about him, forming a close half-circle that sheltered him from the worst of the blasting sea-spray off the cliffs below. ‘Why would you come for me?’

Athos looked back at him, steady and blunt. ‘We were in the middle of a conversation.’

Porthos nodded. ‘And those guards were after me. Didn’t seem right for you to get taken instead.’

‘Besides, we couldn’t just let you hang,’ said Aramis. He flashed d’Artagnan a grin. ‘Not a man of your . . . talents.’

‘How do you know about his talents?’ demanded Porthos, turning on Aramis, who gazed back at him innocently. He swivelled towards d’Artagnan. ‘How does he know about your talents?’

‘If I might interrupt,’ interjected Athos wryly, ‘I suggest we all make ourselves absent from Port Royal for a time. The further away, the better.’

There was silence a moment, then Porthos spoke.

‘I’ve got a ship.’

Athos raised an eyebrow. ‘And what are your feelings on passengers?’

Porthos chewed on his lip, but d’Artagnan could see the grin playing around his mouth. ‘It’s not cheap, you know, carrying extra cargo.’

‘I have rum.’

‘That’ll do it.’

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve taken in the sea air,’ remarked Aramis. He looked to Porthos, a light in his eyes that d’Artagnan had not noticed before. ‘It’ll be like old times, my friend.’

Porthos grinned as Athos eyed d’Artagnan, his face unreadable as always. ‘And yourself?’

D’Artagnan looked around at them, these three men, criminals all, who had entered his life one day and risked their own for his the next. ‘I-’

‘It is your choice, of course,’ continued Athos smoothly. ‘You are under no obligation to accompany us.

Porthos jumped in. ‘Even if you did rob us.’

Aramis nodded his agreement. ‘After all, what’s a little theft between friends?’ he remarked.

Taken aback, d’Artagnan thought about what they were offering. It would mean leaving everything he knew behind, at least for a while - the streets he had run since he was a child, a town where he knew every corner and cranny. But he had no family, no ties back in Port Royal, only a death sentence waiting for him, and this would be something else entirely - a life on the ocean, to make what he wanted of himself, the chance to start anew…

Porthos reached out and rested a large hand on his shoulder. ‘And don’t worry about paying, lad.’ He quirked a grin. ‘Not just yet, anyway.’

‘I’m not worried,’ d’Artagnan told him, coming suddenly to a decision. Fishing a hand into the inside of his cobweb-strewn shirt, he pulled out something bright, coloured and embroidered. ‘I have Aramis’ coin-purse.’

Aramis reached instinctively for his empty belt. ‘That is a most annoying habit of yours,’ he muttered darkly, giving d’Artagnan a dirty look and snatching his purse back as Athos’s lips curved in an almost-smile beside him.

D’Artagnan grinned, feeling Porthos’ hand close more tightly around his shoulder, warm and steady.

‘Come on, lad. From the looks of things, you’ll fit right in.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I'd love to know your thoughts!


End file.
